


Katabasis

by bardsley



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6712273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bardsley/pseuds/bardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad Crawford is about to be taken from his home. He is nine years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Katabasis

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story involves the death of original characters and violence committed by a child. 
> 
> Thanks to DarkAngelAzrael for the editing. All the remaining mistakes are mine.

Bud was barking like mad.

 

Brad heard the rumble of the engines and the gravel crunch under the tires as the cars drove up to the house. The curtains were drawn, but he could still see the round, white beams of the headlights projected onto the far wall, illuminating the twisting green vines on the floral wallpaper. He sat up in bed. Brad had never seen that many cars at his parents’ house at one time. He wondered what they were doing there. Then he Saw them. Caught up in the future playing out in his head, Brad couldn’t move. They were pounding on the door by the time his body was his again. He rubbed his hand beneath his nose and it came back wet with blood. He had Seen things as long as he could remember, but it had never made his nose bleed before. He wiped his hand on the covers and climbed out of bed. He calmly put on his glasses. He’d need them. He didn’t worry what his mom would say about the stain.

 

Mom and dad were already out of bed when Brad got up. He passed them in the hallway. They were on their way to the living room, while Brad was headed the opposite way to the den. His mother’s long black hair was mussed. They both were glistening with sweat. Brad wouldn’t realize until years later that the cars had probably startled them from sex. He was only nine years old at the time. His mother was wearing her favorite nightgown. It was pale blue and smelled like clean sheets. His father was wearing only sweatpants and the paleness of his upper arms and toned torso stood out in the darkness. Brad felt a degree of pride that both of his parents had been smart enough not to turn on any lights.

 

His mother looked rattled but not frightened. Dad, though, looked calm. Brad didn’t have the time to wonder if the calm was real or not. As someone who had gotten an important job with the city on little more than good looks and a high school education, dad was good at letting people see just what he wanted them to see. Dad smiled his bright, charming country boy smile. “Hey, Brad, this is probably nothing, but—”

 

Brad recognized the cheerfulness in his father’s voice as false. It was also unnecessary. He interrupted his dad telling him to go back to his room. “Don’t open the door,” Brad said perfunctorily. He knew that he did not need to say more. His parents knew his voice too, and they’d know that tone meant he’d Seen something.

 

Neither of his parents moved toward the front door. “What do we need to know?” his mom asked efficiently. She followed Brad to the den. Brad’s father followed behind her. The hallway was lined with family photographs along both sides of the wall. There was a new one from every year since Brad was born with empty space measured for a new photograph every year until Brad turned 18.

 

“Nothing,” Brad answered. He picked out the shotgun from the gun-rack. His grandfather had taught him how to shoot and Brad was best with the shotgun, and he needed to be good right now.

 

Brad’s dad quickly stepped forward with his hands in front of him. “Brad, buddy, no, we can sneak out the back or—”

 

Brad took aim and shot his dad in the head twice. This close, it was impossible to miss. By the time his body dropped, the top part of his dad’s head wasn’t there anymore. The thick red and purple splatter behind him looked like an abstract design of a bouquet of roses. Some of the splatter landed on Brad’s face and pajama top, and most significantly, his glasses.

 

His mother didn’t scream or try to run, but Bud stopped barking for a moment. Mom curled her arms around the mound of her belly as if it would protect the baby growing inside it. She didn’t look at her husband’s body. She never looked away from Brad. And the way she looked at him was so sad. Brad shot her in the heart, then the head. It was a practical choice, not a poetic one. She was further away and his vision was compromised.

 

Years later, it would be the only thing about that night that he felt guilty about—that he didn’t shoot his mother first. Brad did the only thing he could have done, strategically. His father was closer, and could have stopped him. But maybe if Brad shot his mother first, she would never have known what was going on. She would never have been sad or had time to worry for the life inside her.

 

Brad heard the click of Bud’s toenails on the wooden floor. It sounded like the old hunting dog was whimpering and growling, edging toward the den before moving back to protect his family from the intruders at the door.

 

Brad stepped over his mother’s body. His feet hit the hallway just as the door was starting to crack. He adjusted the sights and took a shot at the dog. He watched Bud flinch, heard him yowl and whimper. Then, Brad’s stomach churned. He didn’t do it right. The men were coming through the door already, but Brad didn’t lay the shotgun down until Bud’s head was scattered around the floor like a crushed watermelon.

 

Then Brad put the shotgun down and put his hands up. “I’m ready.”

 

The cars’ headlights were still on, so he could only see the silhouettes of the men at the door. With the red sights of their guns pointed at him, they looked a little like aliens from the kind of late-night B-movie that his father wasn’t supposed to let him watch.  Brad could feel someone else inside his head, but it was okay. He was only thinking one thing, and they would not understand until it was too late: Brad Crawford loved his parents.


End file.
